The truth may not be told. Here is an acceptable lie.

My own survival required me to counterbalance interesting with invisible.

If I could keep a single moment for all time, that would be the one. I became the very air; I was full of stars.

Claude rubs the back of his neck and wrinkles his nose, about to tell me he was never sad. I believe this is called bravado and is not limited to lawyers, or even men, although that combination makes it almost unavoidable.

The world inside myself is vaster and richer than this paltry plane, peopled with mere galaxies and gods.

It is permissible to be the god of your own metaphors.

I cannot perch among those who think that I am broken.